Quintessence
by Ellenka
Summary: "If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes..."
1. I

**Disclaimer:** Everything you recognize from The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins. Quoted lyrics: "In the Flesh?" by Pink Floyd.

**A/N:** I shouldn't be allowed to listen to Pink Floyd. This is my first noob-ish attempt at writing Cato (Clato?). Will be a three-shot eventually.

* * *

**Quintessence**

* * *

**I.**

_So ya  
Thought ya  
Might like to go to the show.  
To feel the warm thrill of confusion  
That space cadet glow._

* * *

They are living legends. The Victors of the Hunger Games.

They ascend from the carnage to be worshipped by the Capitol and the districts alike.

And worship them is what we do, especially our own.

Everyone wants to join their ranks, me included.

They are always the best, the strongest. While most other victors were pulled out half-dead and almost-starved, the champions from Two usually stood strong and proud, elbow-high in blood and knee-deep in the dead. Steely masks hiding pain, if there even was any to hide.

And those who don't win, they are nothing. Even if they used to be _ours._

Sure, we have to send two tributes into a game only one could survive, but who cares?

That only doubles the chances of our district winning. Besides, it hardly ever comes down to the last two tributes from Two – after the Career alliance breaks for good, there's usually only the better one left. And when it happens… it's the survival of the fittest. And the fights make for the best and rarest instructional footage.

/

The other tribute, the girl, is already standing on the stage, small and steely and deadly like the daggers she loves so much.

Clove.

A bit younger, but already has quite a reputation. One of the few girls who made a longer-than-night lasting impression on me, even though we'd exchanged just some sparring blows, both physical and verbal. But I guess she'd make a lasting impression on anyone, even if she refrained from trying to leave them with a scar. (Vainly, in my case!)

Maybe I'd have preferred it if she waited and won next year…

But she'd already volunteered and that can't be undone. If she _thinks_ she's already good enough… her call.

My decision to go and win is firm, nothing can't possibly shake it. I'd bet everything on my last chance, honing my skills and waiting to volunteer in my last year of eligibility to maximize my chances. I trained hard all my life and outscored everyone in my training class. I earned my right to call the dibs on my place in the spotlight, my chance to win honor and glory, my license to kill.

And I'm sure as hell gonna do that. The 74th Games will be mine.

When the escort announces the name of the reaped (who cares?), I don't hesitate, not even for a second.

"I volunteer!"

I must say, the words echo magnificently between the marble pillars of our Justice Building. In Two, we take bringing honor to our district seriously, unlike most of the higher-numbered rats.

We volunteer prepared to do our very best, we volunteer for death or for glory.

Since I'm counting on the glory, why wouldn't I volunteer?

/

Clove smirks as we shake hands, apparently unfazed. I return the gesture, squeezing her little fingers hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to harm.

Time for that might come later. Meanwhile, she'll make a great killing partner.

If… or when… it comes down to us… we'll sure give them one hell of a spectacle.

I can't wait for the show to begin. I'll show them what I'm made of, what I'm destined to be.

I'll ascend to be a legend.


	2. II

Ugh, 's been so long. Sorry. It's beyond high time for part two, but here it comes.

Also, this has somehow grown LONG, so the final part-count is gonna be 3, hope you don't mind.

Unreliable writer out, onto the story.

* * *

**Quintessence**

* * *

**II.**  
_Tell me is something eluding you, sunshine?  
Is this not what you expected to see?_

The train and catering sure live up to my expectations. Being reasonably well off and a promising trainee to boot, I'd lacked nothing back in my district, but the Capitol obviously takes particularly good care of the potential champions. Another reason to repay their investment to the best of my ability, especially since I'm hell bent on getting the Victor's crown as well.

Clove looks like she's enjoying the dinner too, and scandalizes our escort by impaling every bite of food on her own tiny sharp knife instead of the fancy fork. We've been irregular lunch buddies at the academy, but gotta say watching the little habit of hers never gets old. She grins when she catches me looking, and takes special care to graze the knife against her lower lip as she drags it from her mouth.

I return her grin, casually amused. Clove always bares her teeth like a weapon when she smiles.

If she won, she might even get them filed into pointy fangs to match her mentors'. As it is, I'll have make sure she won't live to see Enobaria's dentist, but I'm not dwelling on that too much.

We're still in for a good time as allies; and the final bow to the rules of the game can't hurt _that_ much, now, can it?

/

After dinner, we go watch the reaping recap to size up the others. Potential allies first, that is.

Mm, that blonde from One is a fine piece of ass… too bad she won't be making it out. But I'll sure find plenty of just as fine ones after _I_ do.

"See something you like?" sneers Clove from the opposite side of the couch where she sits curled like a big cat. All razor-sharpness and killer grace.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Just checking out the competition."

Clove purses her lips into a blade-thin line. "Yeah, right."

Smirking, I turn back to the screen. Clove is all fine, but this One will sure attract more sponsors based on her looks, might as well share a bit of screen time with her while the Career pack sticks together. No need to worry about my district partner, I know her well enough to tell she wouldn't stab me in the back. Clove's been like that lately anyway, she could get so nasty I'd call jealous if I didn't know better. After all, the academy is for training, not for hooking up with people you could find yourself up against in the next games. Better safe than sorry - we usually don't know soon enough who else will be allowed to volunteer.

The guy from One looks alright, good help to start with but not much of a threat for me when things get rough. Unless he's too handy with some weapon or other, but we shall see about that during the training. The Threes look unimpressive as always, might be useful if _extra_ clever, but they are hardly ever the useful kinda clever, so adding their brains to the bloodbath wouldn't be that much of a waste. Girl from Four looks fine, nothing interesting compared to the bombshell from One, or Clove for that matter, but might be useful. Guy's extra small this year, guess we'll offer him a place in the alliance just for good form and won't miss him if he 'accidentally' doesn't make it further than the Cornucopia.

After Five, there's no alliance-worthy material, and no threat material either. No pride, no excitement, no nothing. The higher the district number, the less chance for anyone interesting to appear.

It's too easy to tune out, so I hear Clove's hissed "daaamn" before properly focusing on the guy from Eleven. _Damn_ right, that one's even hunkier than me, and might be dangerous even with unskilled brute force. I sure didn't expect that, but I wouldn't be too worried. After all, the game won't be as much fun if nobody upped the stakes. The audience needs to be entertained.

"That one might be interesting," comments Clove. "Nice big target."

"Yeah, even you might hit it." Clove's knife-throwing skills are legendary and we both know it, but she's more fun when pissed off.

"Practice makes perfect," she grins. She's still toying with her throwing knife and pretends to chuck it my way, but grabs it out of the air at the last moment, safely clamping the spinning blade between her fingers.

I ostentatiously ignore the 'threat' and turn back to the screen, still showing huge Eleven. Good there's only one of him, though, and his district partner looks almost invisible in comparison.

Same goes for the frail blond thing that gets reaped in Twelve, she wouldn't last a minute in the arena, at least if I get some say in it. No honor and no glory in killing a kid like that, but she'll have to go out of the way, and she should count a quick fatal cut as a favor. Anyway, from what I've seen, tiny brats are a pain to track if they hide well and don't have the decency to starve fast enough.

Looks like I won't have to bother with this one, though. Another girl, scrawny and black-haired, literally jumps in front of her and volunteers.

Now that's new.

"Awww," Clove drawls mockingly, lips pursed.

The escort in a pink wig, Tricky-something, asks her name and then prattles on about stealing the glory, but I can smell bullshit all the way through the screen - the girl too obviously thought she's volunteering to _save_ her sister. Gotta admit it was a brave thing to do, but she sounded all desperate, and sure had no idea what she's really doing. No protocol either; guess that would be too much to expect from Twelves. The rest of that backward scum doesn't even clap to acknowledge their _volunteer_.

Whatever, slightly bigger target, that's all she'll be. She may have bought her little sis one more year, but that doesn't change anything in the big picture.

Her district partner is reaped and marches onstage like a convict to the gallows. Like always, even though this one is not a miserable mine-rat like most of them. He does seem about to start sniveling, but who knows, might be faking it, 'cause he looks pretty strong too. Not a huge threat like that one from Eleven, but might be worth keeping an eye on just in case.

Our mentors have watched the recap with us, attentive but not too interested. No wonder, there was nobody who could really undermine their confidence in us.

"Seen something you didn't like?" asks Brutus from his armchair, eyeing us above heavily booted feet propped up on a fancy little table.

"Sure, they'll all look way better with their heads off." My mentor raises a glass to my words and we laugh together, as loudly as possible. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt, then it's hilarious, isn't it?

"Or nicely cut up," adds Clove not to stay behind, earning a sharp golden smirk from Enobaria.

"You bet, girl," she says approvingly. "The better show you give the audience, the more generous they'll be."

/

That goes for the tribute parade too, and we get a strict instruction to go along with whatever our stylists tell us. Fine by me, they always create something impressive enough to show who's the strongest and the most likely winner. The crowds waiting for our train to roll in greet us enthusiastically enough, but let them see me in some ancient-god-like armor, riding through their city on a chariot… That's gonna feel _good_.

I'll be the first from my immediate family, and sure as hell the best tribute there's been in a long time, even from our district, and Panem will lie at my feet. Let them stare in awe, the whole rotten lot of them.

The regular Capitolites seem like weaklings when taken one by one, with their colorful heads too far up their feathered assess, and arms that probably wouldn't hold a proper weapon. But with the perks their need for safety grants to our district and the collective worship they bestow on our victors, they are worth catering to. You don't bite the hand that feeds you, or however the saying goes. Anyway, some years of training and then taking a pretty sure shot at glory – not to mention a comfy house and a shitload of money – is about the best thing I can imagine doing with my life. Who cares about those too wimpy to try?

Damn, but Brutus could have warned me about the prep team. Or maybe I should have figured something's up from the way he smirked before we've been rushed to the Remake Center. I'm used to girls feeling me up everywhere - but the ones I pick myself - and not to them bathing me like a kid and slathering me with all kinds of crap I can't even name.

Whatever, anything for the audience. I'd volunteered to put myself on display after all, and the costume I get more than makes up for the prepping. Classic, brass colored but gleaming like gold, seems made just to fit my muscles – it's not like they needed enhancing but nothing wrong with looking superhuman up there on the chariot. And there's a cool winged helmet too. Fucking impressive if I do say so myself.

Clove seems impressed enough, but she tries to hide it behind her usual show of aloofness. Gotta admit she's not looking bad herself in her slightly girly version of the armor and some makeup. Just badass and as hot as if she needed looks to kill.

She sure doesn't, but who knows about One… I look for her as soon as we enter the large stable our chariots will ride forth from. Mmm, yeah. She returns my grin when I check out her clingy jeweled tunic, especially the big faceted stones around her cleavage. Guy One glares at me enviously – sparkles and fluff don't look nearly as hot on him as on his district partner. _Poor bastard_, I think maliciously, and focus on the fine display to his right until Clove jabs me, her metal-encased elbow ringing on my breastplate.

We position ourselves on the chariot to wait for our turn and I survey the others from my vantage point. Weird, scaly, cheap, sparkly… nothing much… nothing much… and coal unitards as usual. Okay, nothing's gonna steal our thunder.

Girl One sure has a fine ass in that costume, but that's all competition I see. As soon as their chariot gets out of sight and their cheers subside, it's our turn. Chins up, smirks on, muscles flexed on the arms we raise to accept our greetings. The crowd smears into a colorful mess as I look at it from _my_ spotlight; the excited roar boils my blood and resonates in every cell of my body.

Yes, this is _it_.

Better than a few drinks, better than the high after a tough workout or a victorious spar, better than the moment when I've finally been okayed to volunteer… even better that sex, at least that's what I'd say now that I'm living it. Time of my life so far. Makes me look forward to when I'm a victor and they'll be cheering for me only. And until then, I can't complain about the company. I refuse to waste a second for looking down, but when I catch a glimpse of us on the screen, Clove seems just as excited as I am, and it suits her damn well. We make a good pair. Great, in fact. We aren't touching or anything – who would, now – but standing close enough to show we are comfortable in each other's presence, strong allies for the time being, but promising no remorse when we become strong opponents. That's what the games are about and we are playing with every gesture, awesome like haughty warrior-gods from the few storybooks we've been allowed to read.

The spectators might believe they hold our lives in their hands, but not all – all but the best. To the victor go the spoils, and we share homage from our worshippers as a tasty starter.

Shouts of excitement and chanting of our names follows us throughout the streets, never drowned by a louder reaction to the competition coming after us.

Until we are almost within the City Circle, that is.

Noise literally explodes somewhere far back, and keeps gaining intensity. After a while, it turns into a recognizable chant. District Twelve. And some stupid names I can't quite catch. Who cares anyway.

But Twelve? Why would anyone cheer for Twelve? That's never happened before, I would know after having dutifully watched all the previous games to prepare myself. Twelve had their last victor in the second Quell, a dirty mine-rat who won by just as dirty trick I've been told to forget about. Of course I didn't, but it's not like I would need to lower myself to that kinda cheating. He hasn't really made an impression before the games even began, though, definitely not like this.

So why the hell wouldn't they shut up about the Twelves now?

I see the answer quite plainly when they reach the City Circle and park on their designated spot.

They are on fire.

Too bad it's not real fire, they would be fun to watch if they writhed and screamed. It's just some fake flame to bedazzle the audience. And it's working too, they can't stop gawking and cheering, and the firelight seems to draw all cameras like moths. They are even _holding hands_.

Haven't they got the memo about a _fight to the death_? Fuckers.

Normally, I'd say that I wouldn't piss on the scum from Twelve if they were on fire… but now that they are flaming on _my_ parade… sounds like a good idea.

I can't do that, of course, and do my best to keep my expression as winning as when we rode out.

Just for a moment, I catch Clove's eyes narrow and twitch towards the twelfth chariot, and give her a tiny nod.

Nevermind we've been outshined, we'll make sure the kids on fire burn in hell soon enough.

/

They sure aren't all that impressive during training, just the guy seems decent at hand-to-hand combat. Otherwise it's knots, camouflage, making fires and shelters… Yeah, useful stuff, but for the prey, not for the predators.

Whatever the arena might be like, taking the Cornucopia means being pretty much set for the Games. Even if not, there should be tents and matches and stuff, and I'm pretty sure sponsors would spare a bit of money to see me hunting two-legged game for their entertainment instead of trapping rabbits or whatever for dinner.

What impresses me is the training facility, though. I'm almost sorry I'll have only three days to enjoy it before the Games. The equipment back home was nothing to complain about, but this is top notch. I try my hand at all the weapons, just to get a feel of the newest Capitol designs. It's not like I had much to learn, but some fine-tuning of skills won't hurt, especially not with these babes. Throwing a spear has never felt quite this good. Right through the heart from fifteen yards, and on the first try too. Can't wait to see how it works on people, not dummies. Wouldn't be all that different, would it? Just messier fun.

Other competition-watching brings no surprises either; most kids are obviously holding weapons the first time in their lives, and only a few of them have enough strength and talent to handle them properly. Ones are good, as trained volunteers should, but not _too_ good. The guy – Marvel – seems to favor spears, but I'm sure I could throw farther if necessary, not to mention beat him in a swordfight. The girl – _name's Glimmer, and you must be Cato, oh I sure remember you…_ - is more elegant than powerful, with the exception of bow-shooting where she's neither, but she graciously lets me cop a feel or three when I help correct her stance.

Clove knows what she's doing and sure doesn't need any help, but I still keep an eye on her from time to time – gotta enjoy it while it lasts.

We sit all together at lunch, having awesome time, and invite the Fours too, they seem only too happy to hang out with the cool kids. Not for long, but they might be good for something. The other tributes keep to themselves, all scared quiet as if they were already dead. Well, they would be soon enough, but we'll have some fun with them before that. Only the Twelves stick together, and even laugh now and then. Glimmer might be right, probably at how fucking ridiculous they look dressed the same.

Only big Eleven seems perfectly fine keeping to himself, in fact so fine he's pissing me off. Wonder why he's not trying to get a place in our alliance, even I'd admit he's good enough. Marvel even suggests _we_ ask _him_, which almost pisses me off more. Yeah, that would work to keep him in range and might save us some trouble later on, but I won't be the one to go sucking up to an Eleven who obviously doesn't give a crap about us. So I let Marvel go ask, and laugh in his face when the returns rejected.

/

However great the training is, I soon can't wait for the individual sessions when we get to show off in front of the Gamemakers. They are watching us train, and I'm not holding anything back – it's too obvious I'm the best, so why try to hide it? – but having their undivided attention is bound to be even better.

My time comes soon enough, and they are all fresh and interested. Sure had a great eyeful while Glimmer was in, but now it's time for real power. I make sure they know I'm great with every weapon, and by the time I'm done showing them some equally flashy and efficient sword moves we'd perfected with Brutus, there's hardly any dummy left whole. _Sorry, Clove, hope ya don't mind you'll have to wait for new ones_.

The Gamemakers dismiss me with approving nods. Well, of course they would approve. I'm not getting my hopes up for twelve, nobody gets a twelve, but maybe an eleven… _minimum_ ten, or else…

My mind hitches a little at the thought. Or else what?

It's not like I could do anything against the Gamemakers, so I quickly dismiss it. My job is pleasing them, and that obviously worked.

/

Well enough.

A ten, it is.

I'm a bit disappointed, but not too much. I can still show 'em I can do better in the arena. Glimmer and Marvel have gotten nine and eight respectively – so the Gamemakers at least could see I'm better than them. When a ten flashes after Clove's name as well, I wish for the eleven that had eluded me again, but not too badly.

We've been having a great time since she came back from her own session some half an hour after me. Having a few drinks and extra fine dinner with our mentors, bragging about the most awesome points of our performances, joking about how crap the weaklings must have been. Clove's eyes and teeth are sparkling in the hugest grin I've seen on her, she looks so smug I'd be pissed off at her for tying with me, but so happy I just can't bring myself to be.

She lifts both her hands, lean arm muscles poking from short sleeves and all fingers stretched for a high _ten_. I give her good a few, slapping her palms with superior force until the sting makes her grimace, and then grab her wrists, practically lift her from the couch, and spin her around.

My footing is not that sure after the few drinks we've already had to celebrate, and we pretty much collapse back onto the couch in a heap, laughing our heads off. _Fuck yeah, we're the best!_

Also, Clove feels fucking good under me, but before I can dwell on that, and her flushed face and parted lips, I get a rough shove to the shoulder and roll away along the couch.

"Save that till laters, horndog," guffaws Brutus, obviously drunk to a great mood himself.

"Bitch please," I mutter, hopefully not quite loud enough for him to catch, and still earn a hefty punch in the shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Enobaria and our stylists descend on Clove to congratulate her first.

"Also, nice job. Could use some improvement." Another punch. Might have hurt someone weaker, but I just shrug it off. I'm too used to that to mind, and I won't complain right before I finally get to reap the benefits of his "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" training method.

"They'll get a better show when the dummies _bleed_," I snarl. "You would know." _I_ know that even he got _only_ a ten.

"Sure thing." This time it's a pat on the back. Good.

Luckily, our little exchange is over by the time the others turn their attention from Clove to me. I'm still avoiding looking at her, but my blood is already mostly back to where it should be.

Enobaria comes last. "Good job tying with my girl," she smirks, and gives me a half hug and another pat on the back. Feels better from a hot woman, whatever crazy bitch she might be. "Now be a good boy and watch the competition."

I steal a glance at Clove, but she's pointedly staring at the screen, so I do the same.

We must have missed the Threes in the commotion, but they never get too much. Fours are especially bad this time around. After a while, I get bored, but kinda anticipate what Eleven gets. Can't be better than us, can he?

He's not.

But he gets a ten, just like we did.

Fuck. The word fills the room, angrily muttered from four mouths. Something we can all agree on.

Some ox from Eleven has no business being as good as us! Yeah, I can see his strength getting him a ten, but then I should have gotten an eleven… and Clove too, we showed skill that comes from years of dedication, we didn't just throw heavy crap around or whatever he could have done. Or maybe he does have some skill we don't know about... After all he didn't do much during the training, the mightier-than-thou bastard.

"He's fucking dead," growls Clove. "Together?"

"Together," I nod. Better not take any chances with that one. "And gotta be soon." Can't have him stealing our opportunities and screen time. And possible sponsors, now that he got a score as good as ours, their interest is sure piqued; they sometimes do get all invested in exceptionally good high-numberers just because they are something new…

We're all eyes and ears now, so I remember his wee little district partner gets a seven… also damn high for such a little nothing, what the hell's up with them this year?

Thought the surprises are over, but guy Twelve gets an eight. So he did have something to show after all that camouflaging and sheltering. Damn him. Or better, kill him.

But at least the girl… she flashes on the screen, nothing special without the fire.

And then comes her number.

Eleven.

What the fuck?

For a moment, I think I see double. It wouldn't have been the first time a ratty little bitch like that got a one, they are always there just for the laughs… and extra bloodbath kill-counts.

But everyone seems to see the same. And not to believe their eyes. Pretty much the highest score in living memory.

_What did she do?_

We'll never know.

That is, unless we get her to spill her secret before we spill her guts… and maybe hang her on them, should be eleven-worthy fun, right…?

We are all sitting still, kinda dumbfounded, only Clove has pulled out her knife again and started throwing it and catching it right back, this time with nerves and anger, not the usual playfulness.

"This'll gotta go first, then," she hisses, eyes glinting like the steel in her hand.

"Won't be much time to make it fun during the bloodbath," I say, still a bit caught in my imagination.

Clove frowns. "We'll see. Top priority, anyway."

"Yeah."

The celebratory mood is gone. Sure, we only got outscored by one point, but it feels like a huge loss. It wasn't _supposed_ to happen.

Gotta give them hell to make up for it. We can still do that, right?

/

First we get one hell of a prepping, though. Brutus wakes with a nasty hangover and drills us on how we need to _distinguish_ ourselves during the three minutes we'll be given to impress the audience at the interviews. Caesar Flickerman is a bit unpredictable, that fickle old bastard, but has no problem going along with the tributes' chosen angles and playing them up.

So here goes me, the ruthless killing machine, and Clove the blade with a bittersweet edge. To hell with scores, we'll prove we are the ones to bet on. To win.

Talking isn't my strongest suit, but I steel myself and flex my shoulders until I almost rip the 'dashing' dress shirt I've been given. All goes well.

They dig me, and buy the promise we'll show everyone up. Well, not really, but they'll be buying it with sponsor money soon enough, right?

I'd bet on myself, and if not, then on Clove, to each their own.

Wouldn't bet on anyone else, but I try to remember bits and pieces about them. Guy Three says he's good with all kinds of devices, and explosives too, might be worth keeping alive at least long enough to check if that can be put to some use. After that it's mostly to gauge who'd be hard to catch. Five for sure. And little Eleven too. I sure _would_ count her out, but wonder how long it will take if she manages to run from the bloodbath.

Huge Eleven – Thresh, maybe I'll finally remember it – doesn't give a crap about impressing the audience either, but he obviously manages it anyway. His size works to his advantage, and they might be wondering if he's hiding some sort of secret. Fat chance, probably playing the strong and silent just because he can't speak properly.

The next one does have a secret I'm interested in, that is, _how did she get the fucking eleven?_

She doesn't say, though, the Gamemakers even tell her not to, like it was some sort of… inside joke? Who knows what she has shown them…

But I'll know, even if she were to tell me with her last breath.

On the stage she just jokes lamely, repeats the sob story about her sister and twirls in her dress – yeah, it's hot, but just because her stylist is obviously some demented pyromaniac. A show-off too, and it's fucking _working_, the audience is eating her up more than any girl before, even Glimmer or Clove.

Stupid little bitch.

I might have to light her on fire in the arena, we'll see how they like _that_.

The guy comes next, last but not entirely least. Judging by his score of eight, he must have done something impressive when not tagging along with her like a sick puppy. Well, we shall see how long he lasts tomorrow…

Audience is interested, gotta admit he's good with words, even though he just talks some bullshit about roses and bread or whatever. And gets all wimpy when Ceasar asks him about a girlfriend back home – didn't ask me that one, guess it was obvious I can have my pick... what kind of idiot would be crushing on a girl since _forever_?

And say that _she came here with me_?

What the fuck?

It takes a moment to register. And then everyone goes wild. Or mad. This is the Hunger Games, why would he even try to steal the spotlight by some stupid doomed romance? This is not what we've come here for. Idiot.

… unless it was some very clever trick to get attention and further his own chances.

But I'd rather not let either of them live long enough to find out. They have caused enough mess as it is.

With the bomb he dropped to finish the interview, it's as if the rest of us haven't shown up at all.

/

Clove and I are both seething on the way back to our floor. Quietly, though, because letting it out would mean admitting defeat in _another_ preliminary round.

I only grunt in acknowledgement when the stylists try to congratulate us on our performance. Sure, we _were_ stellar, but what the hell does it matter when we've been outshined? Again?!

All I want is to go back to the Training Center and break some dummies. Have an angry fuck. Get wasted. Start the games at once and get the blood flowing.

But I can't do anything out of line, not without showing a bit of fucking _vulnerability_.

And that's the last thing I can afford, especially now.

/

Dinner is quiet and tense. The mentors have disappeared to check the public mood, and even though the stylists are as enthusiastic supporters of the Games as anyone else, our plans about what we'll do the Twelves if given enough time obviously spoil their appetite a bit.

And we talk a lot, just to draw the meal out. However pumped I am to start the killing; it does occur to me that this is the last one we share outside the arena. And if things get really fucked up, one or both of us _might_ be dead tomorrow. It's highly improbable, but shit happens. Obviously.

I make a point to look at Clove while we talk, just to see her eyes gleam with playful malice. Or so I tell myself.

When we do finish, I almost want to tell _her_ something, but I have no idea what. _Killing partners forever? Hey, 's been fun hanging around? But I wouldn't mind if you weren't here but waiting for me at home?_

What the hell?

Would she even be this interesting if she hadn't come here with me?

I don't want to say anything to possibly acknowledge that something might be starting or ending or just _happening_ or whatever.

"Give 'em hell tomorrow, then?" I say at least.

"Yeah."

High five. Fingers tangling and not letting go as we pretend to armwrestle for a moment. I'm incomparably stronger, of course, but it's good to feel her own strength pushing back. Whatever else I might be getting from girls, this is rare. Eyes meeting. Hands quickly letting go. Fists bumping. Familiar territory. _We are allies, remember?_

Two allies from Two.

That's all, and that's enough.

/

What's better, Brutus reckons the odds are still in our favor. Not nearly as overwhelmingly as we anticipated, but they _are_, even though the idiots on fire are obviously hot stuff now.

"Try not to kill either of them yet," he says up front, obviously nearly as pissed off as I am.

"Why the hell not?"

"The audience is too interested. How it all plays out and shit. Let them have their fun. In the end, they die, one of you wins. Not too dumb to get that, are we?"

We share a laugh, a chokingly forced one. That's the only thing left that makes sense. Was there anything else? Ever?

Enobaria appears a moment later and hands us both a small wrapped pill. "Sleep tight, kids. Bloody dreams."

"And break a neck tomorrow. Or a few."

/

We march to our rooms and after a weird too-long look, we nod goodnight and slam the doors.

I finally change from the damn interview suit and order a protein shake to wash down the sleeping pill. Useful shit, that. Makes sleeping right after watching old Games way easier. Should work before playing new Games too.

Whatever tomorrow brings, guess I can't be any more ready. Clove appears somewhere behind my lids before the darkness takes me. _No, I can't._

/

I wake up all rested, and literally count the seconds to go until Panem sees me in my brutal, bloody glory.

What else could matter, then?

/

I ascend into the sunlight of the arena and narrow my eyes to scan the surroundings.

Last sixty seconds to go, and game's on, brats.

Fire to ashes, and blood to dust.


End file.
